Hate (& Other Aphrodisiacs)
by darkwing7174
Summary: Orihime arrives at Hueco Mundo, and her spirit remains unbroken and strong. Grimmjow takes it upon himself to fix that. /GrimmHime/


**Hate ( & Other Aphrodisiacs)**

...

"Woman."

She wouldn't look at him. Hadn't looked at him this whole time.

She had her arms locked around herself protectively, shoulders curling in on themselves. But her posture was steady—chin raised and eyes clear as she looked up through the bars of her room, her _cage_ , at the unchanging Hueco Mundo moon. She still had resolve.

Grimmjow scowled. Ulquiorra was such a shitty jailer. The prick probably intended to make her see logic. Break her spirits in an intelligent way. But look at her. She wasn't breaking anytime soon. What Ulquiorra did not and would never understand was that this woman wasn't worth logistical destruction. See, humans had these useless things like "ideals" and "hope." Grimmjow could cut out this woman's tongue and she would still wake up the next morning believing she had a voice.

So maybe Ulquiorra had more reiatsu than Grimmjow did, but really, Aizen should have let Grimmjow have the woman to break. Hell, even that asswagon Nnoitora would have been a better captor.

Regardless, Grimmjow was certain that only he himself had the wherewithal to completely destroy Aizen's new human pet.

Most assumed that he was the most bloodthirsty Espada, a mindless killer, bent on destruction at any cost. Which was true, to an extent. But to destroy, to rent apart, to render useless and unmade, was a skill - a _joy_ \- so much more than mere physical decimation.

And one thing he had learned from fighting that worthless - _infuriating_ \- Shinigami-human hybrid was that you can't kill hope with your fists. No, you needed to kill hope where it was born, where it slept, where it festered. The heart.

So when once again he called, "Woman," and was ignored, he didn't snap or lose his patience. Instead, he lowered his pitch.

"Woman," he purred.

He was suddenly very close, having moved too quickly for Orihime to track. _Sonido_. She stiffened, but did not turn to look at him.

"Do you know who I am?" he began conversationally. This must not have been what she expected, for she glanced quickly over her shoulder, wide grey eyes meeting his.

"You're the one…" she murmured. "The one…Kurosaki-kun…." Fear glimmered in her eyes, edged her frame. A fear more potent than the numb dread that already existed there.

"Yeah, I'm the one who thrashed his sorry ass."

Her posture turned defensive, and there it was, in her eyes, a flash of lightning on a cloudy day: resolve.

"Grimmjow Jaegerjaques," she bit out, her scorn sounding hilarious in that soft, honey voice.

A grin was quickly taking over his face. "That's me."

Then she said, "I healed you. I healed your arm."

His grin faltered. It wasn't clear whether she meant the statement as a reminder of a debt owed, or introspective regret, or mere factual observation. Grimmjow decided he wasn't inclined to give a shit.

"Tch. You gave me something that already belonged to me. The arm, and the title."

"Sixth Espada."

The grin was returning. "You're well-informed trash, aren't you? Or is it that those Shinigami can't keep their intel secret from even the most unremarkable human?"

She was unperturbed by his insults. If anything, they bolstered her resolve, fanned the embers of her courage. That was all fine for Grimmjow. She was acting perfectly according to his script.

"Kurosaki-kun can defeat you," she said.

"Oh? Because he's done such a good job at that already?" Grimmjow sneered. "Did you tell yourself that when you healed his wounds? I can't say I was paying attention, but it _felt_ like…" He flexed his hands, as if recalling the damage they'd dealt. "Broken ribs? Some organ damage? Reiatsu exhaustion, definitely. Severed muscles. His arm must have been _useless_. I remember sliding my sword right in between the bones. Bullseye! Of course, it must have been difficult to tell, what with all the blood."

Hope, like a spark dying, shriveled under his words. Doubt entered her features and coupled with fear and shame. Shame for not being there to heal Kurosaki right away, shame for not knowing how to fix the broken look in his eyes, shame for so quickly losing her resolve.

"He's going to defeat you," she said again, but her voice was tremulous, betrayed her fear.

Ah, but fear wasn't enough. Fear alone did not kill hope.

He was still behind her, and she turned her chin to again face away from him. Her gaze did not return to the moon, however. It was downcast, at her feet. Grimmjow stepped closer. He let his breath just barely ghost over the back of her neck.

"You sound very sure," he murmured, smirking. "Your faith in the Shinigami brat is crazy, bordering on just stupid." A step closer; the ridges of his pectorals and abdominals touching her shoulder-blades. "I'm pretty strong too, you know," he husked. This time, he _felt_ her go rigid. Her shoulders tightened, delicate bones grazing his chest. His hand reached for her hip, but didn't grab hold. Instead, he kept his palm just millimeters from the white fabric. The illusion of a caress.

He felt her shrink away from his almost-touch, but fear held her feet in place. She didn't make a sound, hands clasped under her chin as if in prayer.

 _Pray to your God, pray for your precious Kurosaki. But it doesn't matter…_

"No one is going to save you," he whispered. His hand hovering over her hip began to trace her frame, slowly, slowly, over the curve of her waist, across her skittish ribs. He paused just beneath the generous globe of one breast, let dread stir and pool in her stomach.

And then his hand was at her neck, cradling her little jaw with his fingers. Her hands immediately clasped his, feebly trying to work his grip free. But he wasn't choking her.

He only gripped her jaw and gave it a little shake. His hand was comically massive when compared to her delicate face. "Wake up, Woman," he said. He leaned forward so he could speak right at the shell of her ear. "It's just you, and me."

She twitched, panicked. "Ulquiorra-san will—"

"Ulquiorra- _san?_ Listen, Woman, that prick Ulquiorra doesn't give a shit about you, doesn't give a shit about anything. In fact, he's the most heartless, emotionless bastard I've ever met. _'San_ '," he repeated in disgust. "Such respect. You may think that when he doesn't kowtow or sneer or mock that he's being civil to you, _polite_ even. No. _This_ ," he said, and tightened his grip on her chin. "This is fucking polite. I'm letting you down easy. Or did you _want_ to see your Shinigami broken and bloody at Aizen's feet?"

That was the wrong thing to say. That, or his tirade had gone on too long. She shifted in his grasp, determined, as she met his eyes steadfastly, her gaze blazing with something that was definitely not fear.

"Kurosaki-kun _will_ win. Kurosaki-kun _never_ breaks a promise, and he _never_ loses."

She had turned around, her enormous breasts almost pressed into his ribs, grey eyes defiant. His grin warped—flirted, a little, with a scowl, and then settled on a cruel smirk. Most of her fear was gone, but that was fine. You don't kill hope with just fear.

" _Kurosaki-kun, Kurosaki-kun, Kurosaki-kun_ ," he mimicked, pitching his voice high and cloying like hers. "I've seen the brat twice, but even I know his full name. Surely you two've known each other longer. No doubt. The way you look at him, the way you look now, all righteousness and loyalty. Does he know he commands such—" He leaned forward; chest met breasts. "—attachment?"

She shrank from him, but he trapped her against the wall beneath the cell window. His hands conquered parts of her freely now. One, pressing her hip into the wall; the other, once again gaining mastery of her chin, tilting her face up.

"Don't you wonder why he hasn't given you his name?" he continued.

"Kurosaki-kun will give me—he will, when he's ready—"

"When he's ready?" he scoffed. "You can't possibly be that stupid. Giving your name is easy. Here, take mine. Grimmjow," he said, laughing. "You can call me Grimmjow. There, isn't that better? Now we can speak on intimate terms."

"It's not that simple," she said, voice nearing a whine. "It's not polite—"

"Polite? Fuck, you're annoying. That Kurosaki brat doesn't call you by your surname out of politeness. He doesn't withhold his name out of politeness. It may have entered your brain that he simply doesn't care enough about you to bother with the name-exchanging bullshit." Immediately he knew he struck a chord.

"You're wrong," she said. Her expression said differently.

"Of course, you have to tell yourself it's out of politeness. Politeness is what good little girls are all about, right? Polite downcast eyes. Polite sugary sweet voice. Tch." His eyes roved licentiously up and down her body. "I bet everyone thinks you're innocent."

Mild outrage lifted her gaze. Confusion. "I don't—"

"Oh sure, you look innocent. You walk and talk and breathe innocent. But I'm not stupid. I can see it." He brought his eyes close and tightened his grip on her chin. "I can see that you're the furthest thing from 'innocent.' And not just because you moan his name - his real name - when you come." He thumbed her bottom lip, seeing something dangerous, something beautiful, begin to take root in her expression. "Not just because you dismiss any admirers as easily and uncaringly as Kurosaki dismisses you. It's because deep inside you, so deep sometimes it's a secret even to yourself, you have the capacity to hate. More than just the capacity. You have a secret _talent_ for hatred. It's because you hate even your so-called friends."

Breath was building in her lungs. She was getting ready to retort, to deny, to defend herself. He silenced her by pressing his thumb past her parted lips, into the moist cavern of her mouth.

"Don't kid yourself, Woman. I don't care what you tell yourself. At night, when you're all alone, aching for him, dripping wet for him, wishing it was his hands between your legs and not your own, you hate her." Her eyes widened. Her tongue flicked his thumb in a sort of gasp. "Yes," he said, glee setting him alight. " _Her_. The puny Shinigami with the punier reiatsu. Great eyes, though. Those huge, violet eyes. That pert little ass. Foul mouth, though even that's tiny. Kinda makes you want to see—" He languidly thrust his thumb further into her mouth. "—just how much it can take." He removed his thumb with a wet twist, smearing her own saliva across one cheek. "Her," he repeated. " _Rukia_."

"How—" She bit her lip, silenced herself this time. Her eyes blazed, frantic.

He just barely reigned in a jubilant cackle. "Oh, you want to know how I know? Know what exactly…? How you hate her?" He raised a mocking eyebrow. "Or how I know her name? I'll tell you." He paused for effect, took notice of the dread filling her eyes - turning grey to ash - and another thing filling them, the hope-killer: hate. "It's the same way I know his name. He _screamed_ it. Eyes absolutely wild, when I took her down. Just after she screamed his name, trying to warn him from me. Seemed like they had a lot of practice, yeah? Screaming each other's names."

Oh, the expression she wore at that moment was almost too lovely to bear.

He gave her a cocksure grin, half sneer, half suggestive. "You'd like that wouldn't you? To scream his name." He bent down - hunched over, really; she was so tiny - and brought his face close to hers. He felt her revulsion (the pierce of her gaze, the hotness of her breath) and knew that not all of it was directed at him. "Would you like to try?" he asked, sly. "You can scream my name," he whispered. Canines against a pale earlobe; a strand of ginger hair caught between his lips. "After all, I _gave_ you mine."

A shove against his chest. "Stop it. Please." Her voice was hard. It practically glittered with fear, and shame, and hatred.

Grimmjow did not stop.

"It's polite of me to give you my name, huh? A common courtesy, really. It makes you wonder just why he won't give you his."

"Stop it."

"I'm telling you, you can use my name. Or maybe you'd like to play pretend." An exhalation of laughter. "You'd love that, wouldn't you? Go ahead, Woman, close your eyes..." The hand on her chin snaked up into her hair. He pressed her into the wall.

" _Stop_ _it_."

He whispered against the pale column of her neck "...we can play pretend all you like."

He ground against her then, a harsh buck of his hips into hers. The hand tangled in her hair twisted her head slightly, bared her neck to him. She had seized up, preparing for the worst, tears already welling at the corners of squinched-shut eyes.

Orihime gasped.

A kiss, hot, but tender, had placed itself below her earlobe. The hand in her hair had softened and began to trace her jawline with an almost…reverence. Her mind was reeling. Was she hallucinating? She opened her eyes, only to have a heavy hand cut off her vision.

"Shhh…" the voice said. The voice no longer held such cruel amusement. Instead, it was warm and comforting and…deeply sensual. Tension in her shoulders began to unknot - aided, she realized, by a hand gently kneading the base of her spine. The lips at her neck pressed more kisses to the delicate skin there, began kissing the edge of her jaw. His hands, his body, all of it was softly demanding, insinuating, coaxing a kind of heat deep in her belly she hadn't realized existed.

"What—" she said, but was cut off again. _Shhh_ , the voice said. The hand kneading her back dipped lower, down to grasp the plump curve of her ass. She surprised herself when she leaned into the proprietary touch. Surprised herself more, when those lips kissed their way to the corner of her mouth and then overtook hers with a kind of feral gentleness, that she responded immediately—had been _impatient_ for the action. She kissed him, found herself dragging his bottom lip between her teeth, sucking gently. He groaned, just like she had always imagined he would—

No, this wasn't him. This was...

Hand at the edge of one breast, uncertain, waiting for permission.

She pushed her chest forward against his waiting hand, against his hard chest, impeccably muscular from hours of training and innumerable battles. She had healed these muscles countless times, knitting injuries back into tanned skin. He had always said thank you with that warm look in his honey brown eyes. A thumb circled her nipple, causing it to stiffen. She gasped against his tongue.

Already wetness was building between her legs. She felt him smile against her mouth, like he already knew.

"Kuro—"

"Shhh…" he said. She pictured his kind, bemused smile, but she must not open her eyes. He had told her not to open her eyes.

The hand on her rear slipped down further, caressing the back of her thigh, and lifted it until she had hooked it over his hip. Her voluminous skirts tightened across her hips. She felt herself lifting slightly from the ground, her right foot on tiptoes, as he braced her against the wall. One hand hooked under her knee, the other left her breast and settled on her skirts.

She heard the sound of cloth tearing and then felt cool air kiss the bare skin of her legs. She didn't dare look. She didn't dare speak. She didn't dare breathe.

A finger, light, over the dampening cloth of her underwear.

Her hips surged against the touch. A moan left her throat in a desperate gasp.

But there was no continuing pressure. She bucked slightly, moaning more, begging with sounds and movements.

And then a finger hooked itself on the edge of her panties, pulling them away to expose the hottest part of her to the cool desert air.

"Do you want this?" he asked. His voice was husky. Sweet. Waiting to see if she was ready.

A broken whimper. " _Please_."

A finger went, hot, inside her. Thrust twice. Then curled devilishly against a bundle of nerves. She yowled. Another finger joined the first, slipping in and out of her wetness, as her hips bucked and bucked, begging him to go faster, deeper, _harder_. His thumb began massaging that point above her opening, that place that tingled with unreleased need, and she nearly screamed at the pleasure.

He was pumping faster now; her foot was bouncing in the air. She clutched his shoulders desperately, feeling that pleasure coil in her center, an unreleased spring.

Panting, gasping, she begged, " _Kurosaki-kun…"_

"No," he said, soft, demanding. His pace increased. Fingers pumping, thumb circling. "Not that. Say it. Say my real—"

" _Ichigo!_ " she cried, eyes squeezed shut. Her entire body tensed and was racked by spasms. She ground furiously against his hand, slick with her fluids, arched and slammed onto his fingers over and over and over…

 _"Yes_ …" he growled, teeth against her throat as waves of intense pleasure radiated from her center. Her orgasm came like a _snap_ of nerves and her spine went straight and she _screamed_ …

And the mouth against her neck curled into a vicious grin, and whispered lovingly in her ear: " _Rukia…"_

She froze. Breath tangled in her throat, muscles locked.

Something leaden settled in her chest, even as her lower muscles clenched around the fingers still inside her.

He watched her open her eyes slowly—slowly so that she could pretend it was all a dream, slowly so that she wouldn't have to realize what she had done, what she had fallen for, what she had _come_ for. She was still panting when at last her grey eyes cracked open, meeting his in the dark.

Grimmjow gave her his widest smirk, canines clenched in wild hysterics. He stepped away from the wall, letting her drop to the ground, unhooked her leg from his hip. The horror would not leave her eyes—was building, in fact.

He watched her eyes, rapt, stricken, as he brought his hand - glistening with her fluids - to his lips and sucked one finger clean.

"Not bad, Woman. But, altogether, forgettable." All hope, resolve, _life_ drained from her face. He waved his fingers in a mock salute. "So long."

He wiped his hand on his hakama, turned, and left the room. The door sealed behind him.

As he walked down the cavernous hallway he crossed his arms behind his head and a let out a yawn. There was a meeting of the Espada soon. He could feel Aizen's reiatsu pulse through him, calling them all together. On his way out of the corridor, he passed Ulquiorra going to check on his prisoner. He couldn't help it; he let a grin stretch his features wide. The soulless asshole didn't even stop or glance his way, but Grimmjow still felt it—Ulquiorra's suspicion was raised. Well, he needn't be bothered. The mystery solved itself moments later.

It started soft, shrill. Then louder: a rising wail that wound throughout the halls, growing, building, until all of the vast corridors and antechambers of Las Noches echoed with a grieving, banshee scream. He felt all of the Espada wince as one and Grimmjow hoped that even that fat cat Aizen was rattled, disrupted by the broken howl that was repeating itself over, and over, and over...

" _GRIMMJOW!_ "

Really, he'd like to see Nnoitora accomplish _that_.


End file.
